


Revenge Leads to Karma, and Karma Bites

by Darikiema



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Humor, Canonical Character Death, Cloning Mishaps, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Parent-child relationships, Suitless Vader, Vader as a Dad, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9055873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darikiema/pseuds/Darikiema
Summary: Darth Vader created them for his revenge; the clones of Obi-Wan Kenobi were his to torture and kill. But when something goes wrong and one of them isn't grown before being released from the pod, he's met with a dilemma that could change the face of the Galaxy.
Or:
Karma sucks and if Darth Vader ever meets her, he's going punch her in her damn face.





	1. His

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part, don't expect there to be a lot of overt hilarity in this story. It's mostly dark humor and sarcasm. If that doesn't come across than just think of it as angst and snarky comebacks from assholes. Also: cursing. Plenty of it. I promise the darker themes won't last long and the cute and fluffy bits (not that there will be a whole lot of them) will come soon.

They were his. The clones belonged to him. Not just the few clone warriors who had managed to escape the Empire's purge of such inferior soldiers, but the clones of the man who burned him.

Of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

At first it started as a sick, twisted kind of experiment. A fascination with the cloning technology that had been confiscated with the Kaminoans. At first it had started as a way to fix his own body. To clone new organs and skin for the parts of his body that could be grafted to. Of course that had been the easy part. And, while he didn't look like he once had, he could breath without the helmet and live outside the life support suit once more. He even had hair.

But an itch had begun to burn in his system; coursing though his veins with a need to know- just to find out if it was possible. To see that man once more. To see if he would look like the same person if he hadn't seen the same life or known the same hardships as the man who had cut him and left him to burn. The same man who had stolen his wife away to her death.

(Deep down, Anakin knows that it was own stupid fault and his own force damned hand that killed his beloved Padmé, but he wont admit it because that makes what he is doing the acts of a depraved monster and means that it should be his own clone that table.)

So he starts it out of curiosity and a genuine interest to see how the Force works with a clone versus the original. It began with an experiment to see how different the two really were. Perhaps there would be some sort of merit in making clones of a former Jedi. More apprentices for himself.

And then it became twisted. Then he discovered how similar they looked. He saw for himself just how much the men in those tubes looked just like his master. So he grows them older and cuts their hair and the beards to look just like that man who turned his back on him and betrayed him. Punishing and hurting and making them scream just to listen to the sound. To imagine the way his master would have sounded if he did that to him. To cut them and remove pieces of their flesh and watch them bleed all over the room. It's cathartic and it's cruel.

Its a cheap replacement for the real thing but it's all he's got in this hell he's created for himself. These clones are like infants and are only alive long enough to die. They do not speak with his master's voice and they do not think the way he does. They don't even know how to speak, they are so young and innocent.

That doesn't stop him.

Sidious knows nothing of it and he is content to keep it that way for the most part. It makes it a little difficult to explain but the feeling of his sated bloodlust is enough to hold his tongue and make the lies more believable. It's how his life is going to continue, he's sure, for the foreseeable future and he won't give it up. Not for anything. Because they are his.

Even this new one. This tiny one that hasn't yet managed to look like a person. It will take a few months for the next one to be ready and years before this one will follow it. This is their purpose and that is how it going to stay.

(The tiny little part of him that still speaks with Anakin Skywalker's voice is hoarse with the effort to stop this but Darth Vader has stopped listening. But sometimes, when the darkness is at it's quietest and the light of the youngest clones is brightest, Anakin will try and convince him to let them go and stop this horrible nightmare he's begun.)

(It almost works.)


	2. Snap Goes Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a new chapter that I wrote a short while ago and loved too much not to try and put in here. It's from Obi-Wan's point of view, so there will be infinite angst here.

He feels it like he feels everything that has happened these last few years. He doesn’t know where they are coming from and he doesn’t know how to help them, these tiny little beings who are so bright in the Force that their deaths feel like knives to his very soul.

Obi-Wan has never thought that he could be more useless than he does every time that familiar, unknown light goes out and leaves him shivering in cold and darkness. He tries to meditate the feelings away, to chase after those souls with his own and figure out why they haunt him so. He tries to find where they came from, to understand why they feel like the snapping of a rubber bands as the light in his own body slowly starts to die out.

But he never can. He never finds them, never knows where to look and only sees the sad and resigned look upon Qui-Gon’s face whenever he asks. If the older man knows, he says nothing and keeps his sorrow to himself.

So he stops asking. He stops searching and he stops wishing and hoping that he could save them, just one of them.

He stops breathing each night their screams ring in the Force and his heart stops beating with every howl of their pain upon the wind. He stops because he figures this is his punishment. This is what he must endure for not being fast enough, strong enough. For not being smart enough to see what Palpatine had done to his beloved padawan; for not being brave enough to just tell his friend how much he loved and cherished him before it was too late. For his love not being enough to rescue the boy and the countless lives he took. For not being fast enough to save Padmé as she lay dying.

For not being _enough_.

And every sharp snap of life that stretches across the vast universe to brand his heart with another lash of death never lets him forget.


	3. Cloning Mishaps

The alarm wakes him from his light slumber, the blaring and wailing thing that means something went wrong with one of his projects. Grumbling to himself and mourning over the loss of any extra sleep he had thought he would be getting the night previous as he readied for bed, Darth Vader threw the duvet off his robotic legs and onto the other side of the bed. Rubbing his face with the synthaskin of his prothetic hands, removing the sleepy gauze of film from his still weak eyes. The dark blond curls on his head flopping over and onto the back of his head while he pushed himself up from the large sleep couch. He hates the synthetic skin he has covered his prosthetics with, but somedays he manages to forget just how bad his injuries were and that he was just a normal human.

Grumbling to himself and still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he made his way to the control panel for his workshop, Vader wondered what was going on that it couldn't wait for a few more hours to annoy him. The screen flashed red and yellow and letters of aurebesh and Kaminoian telling the same tale as the loud screech over his speakers. Telling him to be cautious of imminent failure.

He cursed. Loud and harsh with more than a little Huttese mixed in and slammed his fist into the side of the panel so hard that a crack spread the length of it. It's spidery edges distorting to words only vaguely though he didn't notice.

"Med!" he shouted over at one of his collection of droids he kept on hand. Med being the medical droid that regularly checked up on his vitals and made sure he didn't relapse or reject any of his organs. The small bot blinked awake and hovered closer to him, a dutiful chirrup telling him it was at the ready instead of the annoying and cold intone of the recorded vocal processors. He liked it better that way. Less likely to irritate him with it's impartiality that he knew the droid didn't feel.

He didn't wait for it to catch up to him as he bolted through his workshop to the cloning room. The room opposite the one where he finished with them. The one at the end of the hallway and locked up tight with force suppressing materials in the walls. Where the screams could never be heard and the shouts through the Force were silenced long before they could escape him and his shields. The one where only one droid was allowed in and out of.

Instead, he ran into this room. Warm from the growing tubes and the lights to display their development, it cast eerie shadows along the walls and he raced to the one nearest the end, Med flying after him with agitated beeps and trills he ignored. It was lucky he cooperated for it, as he had habit of running from any medical officer the Emperor unleashed on him every few months. Really, it was lucky all he did was twitch and squirm a little.

The growing container at the end of the row of ten was the last one to be filled with a clone this recent year. The next one was to be born in a few weeks and soon he would be adding another. This one, however, couldn't even be more than a few months old. Not even of birthing age if it were to have been inside a human woman. Another month and it might get there, but right now? No.

And, yet…

The machine was belching some sort of smoke from a short near the base and the embryonic fluid that held the baby aloft was dark and cooling but he could still feel the bright spark of it's life through the Force and hear it's heartbeat on the monitor. Med acts fast and has the chamber draining of fluid before he can even begin opening up the panel and attempting to diagnose the cause for the failure. The wires hot and their coatings melted to one another and dripping down to the base of their chamber as something sparks intermittently.

He curses again but just cuts the power from the whole thing. He'll figure it out later. Right now he just wants to get the smoke cleared and turn the blasted alarm off.

A soft trill reaches him through his grumbling and angry curses, making him turn sharply on the small droid. In its mechanical arms rests a tiny bundle of thermal blanket and red flesh barely visible beyond the folds and the dim, green lighting of the room.

"What?" he snarls at it, already turning back to the machine that refused to stop billowing smoke and sparking where the wires touched one another.

A trill and a screech made him turn sharply back to the droid. It's blue eyes staring accusingly at him and shuffling the bundle insistently at him. It's speech getting more frantic and shrill as he stares blankly at the thing.

"You want me to what? Why?"

It beeps a couple of times, repeating what it had been saying earlier: to take the infant so that it can prepare an incubator for the premature child. Darth Vader wrinkles his nose at the idea. That child is a Kenobi clone and all they are good for to him is to kill. That's it.

"Just let it die," he snarls, almost succeeding in turning around again if not for the wailing of the droid as it explains in a few choice sentences just why that isn't possible. As it is a life and he a medical droid programmed too save all life forms. No. Matter. What.

"That is of no concern to me. Don't bother to save it; I'll just be replacing it once I fix this stupid thing."

A vulgar chirp is the reply. He glares back at it with such heat that it shrinks back a microsecond before insistently shoving the thing in his arms. Obviously beyond caring that he can dismantle the thing and turn it to scrap or some sort of cleaning droid. So Darth Vader, Sith Lord and apprentice to Darth Sidious stares down at the tiny body now resting in his arms. Face still as stone and eyes wide with shock.

The pudgy face is small and its eyes are closed, barely breathing and it's arms waving limply by its head. A tiny glimmer of light in the Force growing weaker as the minutes pass by. Its shivering in the blanket and the red splotches on its face make it look like it was squashed. It doesn't move much more than a couple half hearted opening and closing of tiny hands, but it feels fragile, made all the more obvious by the choked, gasping breaths that are only just audible beyond his own breathing.

And that's when it happens. An urge he has never felt before and had only once thought he would know. A feeling he thought had been ripped away and burned from him by the same man who's clone he held in his prothetic arms. He swallows and tries to shove it down, but the little body in his arms is reaching out to him and searching for his warmth in the Force. Another swallow and he sits down from his haunches to a cross legged position in front of the growing chamber, shielding the weak lungs from the smoke. Instinct moving his hand to cradle the small head and helping to elongate the esophagus as his whole body curls itself around it. A deep breath and a twist of the infant's head and scrunch of it's face and he holds it closer to his body and offers his warmth to it. A shaky exhale and the opening of the bright blue eyes and a bond snaps into place before he can think to shield from it.

Darth Vader, Sith Lord and Killer of all Jedi, Master of the Darkness and Hound Dog to the Emperor, has fallen head over heels in love with the tiny infant in his arms. The small creature who smiles up at him with that same knowing and warm smile he once got when he, himself, was a child. The man- the  _monster_ \- who created the clones for his own sick pleasure has just formed a parental bond with one of his own twisted creations.

Darth Vader, Sith Lord and former Jedi, has become a father. To his former master.

He chokes.

* * *

"When will it be ready to leave the device?" he hears himself murmur. He's been in shock since Med returned and took the infant from him. Reeling from the thought and feeling of the bond that now links him to the bundle of flesh and blood and bone and Force and Light. He swallows convulsively and wonders just how the hell he's going to hide _this_  from his master.

Well, from Darth Sidious. He's never really been able to think of him as his master. Not completely.

"Three weeks, minimum," Med chirps at him. His mechanical appendages, running gently over the little arm that reaches out for him. Scans are being run by the incubator and the vital readout is silently showing it's little heartbeat and steady respirations now that it's been intubated and an I.V. has been placed. It's asleep now and Vader can't be more grateful. Mostly, he's pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to keep himself from grabbing hold of that tiny hand with the gloved opening provided for the parent or doctor.

"So long?" His voice is hoarse and feelings and emotions and wonderings are whirling through his head. Memories of what his master had done to him and the knowledge and heavy weight of the other clones pressing down on his shoulders- what was he going to do with them? Could he kill them? After this one bonded to him, could he kill the other nine that were still growing to just the right age? Could he live with himself if he killed them too? He knew he would never be able to do it the way he had when he had in the past, but he wasn't sure if he could handle more than one child to care for.

He wasn't so sure he could handle having this infant at his mercy either.

"The child is six weeks premature. It's lungs are not fully developed and the lack of oxygen to it's brain may have caused damage that will need to be monitored. It is also seriously underweight and cannot support itself. Three weeks is the minimum but longer may be required in the long run," Med trilled quietly to him, an almost sympathetic look it it's blue orbital processors. Vader doesn't look at them. He's just trying not to put his hand in that glove and run his thumb over that little head. It's bad enough trying to shield himself from it in the Force, he doesn't need to feel that emotional connection to the infant with all the turmoil that is still roiling through his mind.

"I see," he finally manages to whisper. His hand lifting to the glove before he realizes what he's doing. He just managed to rest his traitorous hand on the glass of the incubator when the sharp ring of his door chime alerts him of an intruder to his thoughts.

"Keep an eye on it," he tells Med needlessly before turning on his heel and walking stiffly through his workshop to where he keeps his dresser. Ripping it open and pulling out his stiff formal clothes that he now keeps with a feral snarl. The door chimes once more as he pulls his tunic over his head and he only just manages to reign in his desire to snap the neck of the person on the other side of the door. He has enough crap to deal with right now, he doesn't want to deal with anybody else's.

"What?" he snarls as the door hisses open and he pulls his cloak firmly over his shoulders. The officer across the threshold jumped visibly and swallowed a couple of times before a shuddering breath seemed to calm him considerably.

"A transmission from the Emperor for you, Lord Vader," he stated in a clipped and more-calm-then-he-looked voice. The steel grey eyes did not flinch or flicker to look at the menacing form before him and a short bow was executed before he stepped back from the door and waited dismissal. Vader grunted in acknowledgement, nodding to the officer and sweeping out of his chambers. Running a gloved hand through his unruly hair and pulling it into a tight tail at the back of his neck. He straightened his robes as he went and by the time he was in front of the hologram version of his master, he was crisp and clean. As though he had spent nearly double the amount of time taken to get ready for this meeting. He was good at getting ready quickly, part of his old life that still came in handy.

"My Lord," he murmured, bowing deeply and waiting to be allowed to rise. He may have been on the other side of the galaxy from the man, but the Emperor had a long memory and wouldn't pause to discipline him the next time he saw him.

"Lord Vader," Sidious hissed in that crackling and poisonous murmur that was nothing like the too-sweet, grandfatherly voice from his youth. The wrinkled face met him from beneath the dark hood the same as it always did. And, while they appeared blue in the display, Vader knew they were blazing yellow.

"To what do I own this pleasure, Master?" The low drawl that had become his voice was nothing like what he had once used with the Jedi Council, but he liked to think that they would have fallen off their chairs at the sight of him now. He almost smirks at the thought.

"There was a disturbance within the Force recently; did you feel it?" Those sharp eyes watched him with a predatory,  _knowing_  gleam. Honestly, Vader would be surprised if Sidious  _didn't_  know about his, eh-hem, 'hobby'.

"I did not, Master. I was," he hesitated for the barest of a second, images of the infant's face flashing in his mind, unbidden. "I was preoccupied with other matters at the time."

There, maybe that would satisfy the bastard.

"I see," came the cold reply. "And what 'other matters' would have you so preoccupied that you could not sense the sudden bringing to life of such a great source of light within the Force?"

_Damn._

"One of my projects has produced an unforeseen complication. One that needed my direct involvement."

The gleam sharpened. Sidious' mouth quirked into a feral smirk. A prompt to continue on his fingers as the swirled adjoined to his wrist. Darth Vader wished that he had thought to wear his helmet before confronting his master. He was just glad the room was empty besides him.

"One of the clones I was growing was born too soon and I have yet to dispose of it, Master," he finally admitted, bowing low. Whether to hide his shame or his fear, he would never tell.

"How early?"

"The child is six weeks premature."

"Hm," was the amused, calculating chuckle. Static crackled at the edges of his voice but the dark intentions were no less than perfectly clear. Darth Vader wanted a hole to open up and swallow him.

Because he has memories of a grandfatherly man opening up to him and being kind and generous as he slowly twisted and turned his mind into something that made him unrecognizable to even himself. The man who made him kill his own, beloved wife and child. The bastard who killed every child and Knight and Master he had called friend and family. The Monster who betrayed the whole galaxy and his most trusted, loved master. All for this Empire that he has no real power within. To be a slave and a mindless beast who did his new master's bidding.

Darth Vader shoves Anakin Skywalker's voice deep inside his body and covers it up with a good and solid layer of hate and rage. Sidious is his master and has shown him great things- things the Jedi would never dream of. Sidious has given him power and the will and the tools to take what he wants. His new master has turned him into the formidable warrior he always wanted to be and has shown him the ways of power. Has given him real power.

So if the Sith Lord wishes for him to raise this new version of his former master to be his next apprentice? Well, that's just another means of revenge against the bastard who cut him down and left him to burn. The kirffing Jedi who left him to die alone and hurt and afraid. Who deserved to die for what he did and all that he helped the corrupt Order to ruin and crumble.

"And the others?" He asks, even though he knows the answer already.

"Kill them. This little obsession of yours has born unexpected fruit, but can continue no longer. See to it the child is taken care of provided for. When it's old enough, you will send it to me to begin it's training as my new apprentice."

"Yes, Master," Darth Vader replies. If his voice sounds hollow and his throat has closed up to be as dry as his mouth suddenly is, he refuses to admit it. He has agreed to this so now he must deliver.

"And if the child should die? It is premature and experienced a lack of oxygen and warmth for an unknown time before it was removed from the chamber and placed under medical care."

"Then grow another," Darth Sidious callously waved a hand to dismiss the idea. Eyes and thoughts already turned far away as a smile takes over his wrinkled, scarred face. It's a frightening mixture of glee and a sick kind of pleasure that sparks the voice of Skywalker to yell louder. Scream stronger and a little more clearly through the cloud of darkness Vader smothered him with.

"Of course," he murmurs in reply, unable to bring himself to say more on the matter.

"Was that all, My Lord?"

"No," the Emperor replies, bringing up a data pad and waving for Vader to take a seat. He does so, curbing the sigh of irritation and silent suffering as a long meeting rears it's ugly head at him.

Fucking hells.

* * *

Darth Vader watched with a queasy stomach as the faces of Kenobi peered unseeingly at him. They were still growing and their life signs were strong within the Force. Not as much as the little one in the ship MedBay, but still bright and full of innocent light. They were all varying ages, though none were younger than two standard years. Much too old to be a replacement for the infant that dropped itself into his life.

Something hard and cold squeezes his heart at that- the thought of anything replacing the baby he held not a day earlier. He doesn't want that to happen. He doesn't want for that little spark of life to be snuffed out and die. To just vanish from his life like all the little ones he once killed at the-

He shakes his head and holds his hand over the control panel. Taking a deep breath as he tries to force a measure of calm over his mind. He can almost feel the child fussing at his distress and hopes those idiots in the Medical Center don't do anything stupid. He just needs to shut down these growing chambers and have the bodies disposed of. Nothing different from what he had been doing to them. In fact, this was much more humane. Certainly less painful and cruel than the amputation and the burning and other horrible things he did to those…  _infants._

The vomit swells up and is out of his mouth before he realizes that he's going to be sick.

Not just a few months ago, he was murdering clones in the most horrible and disgusting way who were, really, no different than the tiny thing he just bonded with. He gags and is sick once more at the memories that flood through his mind at what he did. Skywalker's voice somehow being the loudest now that his defenses are down and Karma had taken hold of his stupid ass.

By the time he manages to get a hold of himself, calm the shaking hands and shove that fucking pansy's opinions so far down into his mind he's surprised he didn't rip a hole in himself and shove him out, the contents of his stomach have been cleaned up by one his droids on its rounds and the smell has hung itself in the air. Or maybe that's just his nose. Either way, he feels like crap with acid in his throat and up his nose and he still has the other clones to kill. He just has to press the button and inject the sedative that will stop their breathing. That's all- there is nothing more he has to do to finish this and put it all out of his mind and memories.

He just has to push the button and end it all. Push the Force damned button and start a new life with the little boy in the MedBay. Just the tiny red button and it's all over. He's killed nearly half a hundred of them already, what's nine more?

Nine more lives that he has hanging on his conscious. Nine more clones that never should have existed and deserved more than what he's given them just by being alive and having heartbeats. By having brain waves and skin and bone and signatures within the Force. Nine more lives that were ended before they could begin. The only bright side is that none of them will know what their intended purpose was supposed to be and none of them will meet the same fate as those before them. Nine more infants that will never grow up.

He pushes the button but can't stop the tears falling from his eyes as they scald his cheeks the same as their final heartbeats tattoo his soul. Knowing they will never get what their younger brother got.

A chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if Vader doesn't sound like himself as it's been a while since I last saw the movies.


	4. Waiting and Waiting... And Waiting

"How is the child?" he asks, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he walks up to the incubator. The warm cocoon of glass and recording screens. Within is the small, bright body that has screwed up his whole life. He almost hates it. No, he does hate it. He hates that stupid bundle of blue cloth and tiny heartbeat as much as he hates the man who came before it. He hates the kriffing baby as much as he needs it. To keep it close and protect it. See it breath and know that it still lives.

"Healthy, despite everything," a medic tells him. No sympathy or emotion at all, really. Just the same dead eyes of those devoted to the cause (or just bored out of his mind) as the rest of the officers. Or the ones who don't have that gleam of dark desire to posses and control. Which is almost as common as the others.

"Good," he replies and tried not to reach out and touch it with his mind. The child is going to be his master's new apprentice: it would be best not to get too attached.

Too bad the baby doesn't have those reservations. As soon as he's close enough, bent over and peering down at the infant's face, those blue eyes open and a small, gummy smile spreads across it's chubby cheeks. Vader swallows and hopes there is nothing on his face. Something is spreading across his chest while the prickling sweat of fear and metal bite of panic sits in his jaw. He knows he isn't shaking, but it feels like the tension that keeps his whole body taught is going to rip him apart.

The baby just smiles wider and waves a limp hand at him.

Darth Vader almost lets his head hit the glass top of the incubator. He was cursed. That had to be it: this baby was already a cheeky asshole. He would never get away from Obi-Wan. Never.

He leaves before he does something stupid, like brush his hand over its head or touch its mind with the Force.

His life sucks.

* * *

 

Three weeks pass slowly and with a lot of panic. Things change rapidly for Darth Vader as he prepares to raise and care for a child. First of all, he is moved from his little haven on his Star Destroyer to the bones of an incomplete Death Star. He suspects it had something to do with his presence intimidating the work force into working faster to complete the weapon versus it being for the wellbeing of his new charge, but he says nothing. His new quarters are spacious and have two big sleeping rooms and a common room connecting them to a large fresher and room that was supposed to be an office but is turned into a place for all his projects and droids. It's the best they can do for him, but it's better than living where he had been. A shudder had raced down his spine at the thought of a newly crawling infant finding its way into _that_ room so intense that he had almost thrown up again.

Of course, one cannot just become a guardian to a child and have no knowledge of childcare. So Darth Vader had been enrolled in lessons for new parents and taught how to change diapers and feed infants. Given instructions on when to teach it how to potty train all the way how to know when the baby was ready to crawl. He had been so embarrassed that he had actually flushed. He had even cursed at Sidious for the lessons and having them taught by a witch of a nursemaid instead of a droid. Luckily it had only made the Emperor cackle with cruel mirth instead of punishing the younger Sith for his insolence.

Would have been hard to care for a 'newborn' with his own injuries.

Through all of this, Darth Vader would wake in cold sweats, half remembered nightmares and badly suppressed memories clouding his mind. He'd be left gasping and shaking for hours as he tried to force the knowledge of just how many _children_ he killed. Pushing harder and harder against the thing that had once been him just so he could have a few hours peace. What he did was in the past, and while he would never be clean of it, he could at least pretend it never happened. Right? Right.

So he was sick to his stomach most days and terrified out of his mind for all the rest of them as he waited.

He remembered waiting to be a father with Padmé. Granted, he only had a few weeks to think about it before everything happened, but he had been happy about it. He wanted to be a father then- to be a dad. And it wasn't as though he didn't want to be a dad now, he's just having a lot of reservations about it this go round. Mostly because of the little fact that this child is the clone of his former master and not a product of his love with his wife. Also, there is the fact that he is a Sith Lord and travels the galaxy to find his real former master in order to kill him along with the rest of the Jedi. Add in a few bounty hunters and a good dose of Rebel Fighters and you have a very dangerous life.

And that's just him. Now imagine it all with a baby in the mix. He couldn't. Not really.

But then, Darth Vader hasn't really thought of much beyond the mantra of _'oh shit, oh shit, oh shit ohshitohshitohshit!'_ for the past three weeks.

And the niggling wish to just hold his new charge in his arms again. He's been watching the baby laugh and cry and search for him in that glass box whenever he has a free moment to just breathe, and the frustration of not being able to pick him up and clutch the thing closer to him is getting to him. And everyone else.

So when the time comes to decide if the baby is ready to be removed from his confinement is a rather tense time for the medical staff on the half finished space station. Any longer and they are certain the mild manners of their resident Sith Lord is going to snap and they are going to loose at least one of their staff. So they wait with bated breath as the medical droid Vader put in charge of the infant's development and health (they aren't stupid and know that he trusts he droid more than him. Also, let him deliver bad news).

Med trills and beeps in soothing tones at the baby, cooing softly to his happy giggling. Checking blood pressure and oxygen levels as it scans for any sort of anomaly. Completely oblivious to anything besides the human infant in its care. Let alone the tension running through the Sith's shoulders.

Finally, after twenty minutes of tests and more tests and a lot of waiting, Med looks up and trills a soft apology to the man. A hard and steely expression sets over his face but he says nothing and simply nods. Before he can leave, however, Med chirps his acceptance to let the baby be held by his new guardian. Popping the ballon in the room near instantly.

Darth Vader held the baby like his life depended on it. In some ways the infant's life did depend on it, but it was more than that. It was as though some sort of channel had been opened between them and the child release an excited burble of laughter the same time as the man sighed in soft relief. An almost smile on his lips as he brushed synthetic skin along the red fuzz of the small head. Blue eyes met blue eyes and the baby gurgled and kicked his legs out in excitement.

If anyone noticed the soft whisper of "My son," escape the lips of their Lord, they wisely kept their mouths shut.

* * *

Two more weeks passed before Med declared the baby to be ready to leave the incubator for good, though the droid insisted that it be allowed to preform daily check ups. Darth Vader couldn't exactly say no, of course, as the droid belonged to him and resided in his new chambers now that the child wasn't in the MedBay. Though, he was just happy to have the child out from beneath anyone else's eyes and keep it all to himself. To ferret it away and protect it from everything that was the Empire and his his life as a Sith.

He's sitting on his bed with the child cradled carefully in his arms when Med finally asks the question he's been avoiding for the past five weeks.

"What is his name?"

It's an innocuous question. If the situation were any different. He thinks about naming it a great many things. Perhaps, if it had been a girl, he would have named it Shmi or Padmé. Though the idea of Sidious sliding either name off his poisonous tongue makes him ill and one of naming him after his former master makes him want to cry. Stupidly, he thinks, as he is a Force Forsaken Sith Lord. He does not cry over a name. He just doesn't.

But almost.

Instead, he's been trying to think of other names. Of ones that mean things to him or to his life, but all he can come up with are names of dead Jedi and former friends. Of brothers who were destroyed just because of their DNA or people he saved as the Hero with No Fear. And none of them seem to fit, so he tried to think of names from StewJon or from Tatooine since it's his son and not Obi- It isn't _Kenobi_. But he just can't think of it. Five weeks felt like a lifetime when he wanted to hold his son in his arms again but five weeks feels like the blink of an eye when it comes to naming the poor boy.

So he tells Med to give him the night to decide, knowing he wont have a name by then. He holds his son in his arms as he sit on his bed in nothing more than sleep pants so he can feel the boy's skin against his own flesh and let the baby hear his heartbeat as he sleeps. Lists off names to the happy child to get his opinion but only gets scrunched expressions of mirth or disgust. Well, he assumes it's one or both of those things. It's only five weeks old and he really isn't sure how long until human babies are capable of expressing whole thoughts. Their bond through the Force isn't very helpful, either.

He stays up all night and thinks about it. Debates over it with the baby. Agonizes over it with the flagging and harshly ripped off edges of his old bond with his former master. Cries about it despite what he just told himself about being a Sith Lord. Weeps when he finally figures it out.

In the end, when Med returns the next morning to find the two curled up on the pillows and Darth Vader brushed gentle fingers through the fine hair atop the boy's head, there is only one name he can think to give the boy.

"Anakin."

* * *

Karma is a bitch and when Darth Vader finally meets her, he's going to sock her right in the goddamned face.


	5. Please Stop Crying

Darth Vader had never been more stressed out or tired in his whole life.

Growing up a slave had left him with certain natural habits that had served him well throughout his life and so was used to getting up early while the war had helped to hone his senses to work under the pressure of little to no sleep and the threat of danger. Being apprentice to both the Jedi and the Sith had taught him two very different methods of training that were both rigorous and required complete discipline of the self in order to master the techniques he was being taught. As well as being the master to several dark apprentices (and one light, but he won't think about his snippy, sweet Ahsoka) had trained him to let go of his own physical discomfort to set an example while training the Stormtroopers had been a huge setback in any sleep he may have gotten. Add that to his chronic insomnia and constant physical pain from being burned alive and he was used to the challenges of functioning with little sleep.

This wasn’t that.

This was waking up every few hours to absolute screaming of a baby who, for all intents and purposes, had decided that Darth Vader didn’t need any real sleep anyway. This was the torment of a child who needed constant care and this was the fact that he could trust the care of said infant to no one but himself and Med. So, no help there.

Every two hours, Anakin would wake, wanting to be fed and changed and just needing to reach out and touch his new father’s skin. Oh, and the synthetic stuff on Vader’s prosthetics did not suffice. It was not enough most times for an exhausted and nearly delirious Vader to brush his hands over the red fuzz and whisper to please, _please_ go the _fuck_ to sleep. He had to pick the poor babe up in his arms and swaddle him and hold him close so that he could hear his father' heartbeat. Which, Vader was certain was running a mile a minute at all times now.

He also had to keep the boy occupied or else risk a blow up. Not easy when he still had to complete his own tasks as Sith Lord and commander of the fleet and director of the 501st. Nor was it a piece of cake when he had to deal with a force sensitive child who could throw a tantrum that made his father's from his youth look mild. Anakin would scream and yell if Vader was out of his sight for more than an hour and even Med looked harried by the time he returned to care for the infant. Often he came back to find most of his workshop on the station a complete mess with his tools strewn about and his droids cowering under his tables or beneath his bed.

The first time had been hilarious; the fifteenth time had been irritating.

The fiftieth time had been heart wrenching. If his son couldn't stand to be away from him, how was he ever going to give the baby over to his master for his apprenticeship? Would he ever be able to? He didn't think so.

By the time the baby was three months old, Vader was at his wit's end. He was tired and cranky and finding it hard to give a shit about anything anymore. Anger was his constant companion but the bond with his son had tempered it to a dull panic and mild irritation. Nothing like the fury he once wielded but, in no way, was it helped by the constant wailing and screaming of an infant who didn’t want anything but food and his father’s heartbeat. Who seemed to enjoy the constant upending of the Sith Lord’s life and the never ending and awkward sleep schedule that he set for said man. Vader was to the point of bashing his own head into a wall and hoping it would knock him out long enough for more than a fifteen minute nap.

Which is when something changed.

At first, he had thought he was finally going nuts from it all. The pressure of having to be at his best outside his quarters and from needing to care for the fussy, annoying, wonderful little clone that had invaded what was left of his heart. Because, honestly, there was just no way that it had happened.

How could the baby go from screaming and screaming and _screaming_ like a mother fucking banshee all day and night to laughing?

So he thinks he’s gone mad and that he should really hand the thing over to Med in case he drops or throws the bundle of ‘joy’ into a wall. He’s pretty sure that he’s lost it and that he’s hallucinating that wonderful sound- he doesn’t even know what he did to make the baby laugh in the first place! All he remembers is sitting on his bed, legs crossed and baby cradled somewhere between the nest in his lap and the enclosure of his arms as he rocks back and forth and begging for him to just, please, stop. Please, oh _please,_ shut up and _please_ stop crying. He’s pretty sure he was in tears by the time he finally realized it wasn’t the wailing of an upset child that was filling the space within his bedroom.

Nope, he’s pretty sure he just cracked and his tiered mind was playing trick on him so that he doesn’t feel guilty about passing out and letting the boy cry himself to sleep (again). Except…

Except that wonderful sound is like music to his ears and warmth to his soul. Like a sun burst in his chest and expanded to fill his mind and body with love and joy. It takes far too long for him to admit it, but he realizes, belatedly, that all that emotion is coming form him and not the child. Well, some of it is coming form his son, but most of it is from the sheer love that engulfs him at that sound. At the look in those blue, blue eyes that don’t look like his former master’s but it spirit. (At least, not yet, but he really hopes that they never turn that color and he can just pretend that the baby boy is actually from his own loins.)

He has to swallow several times before he can return the little smile the baby is giving him. All gums and crinkled eyes as he waves his hands with more strength than the first time he was held at the dirty curls that hang from his father’s head. The laugh only grows louder and more happy at the smile, the tears that are from relief and unadulterated happiness and not grief and exhaustion. Turning into an outright guffaw at his silly daddy when the older man joins in, though much more delirious and watery.

Vader runs warmed fingers along tiny cheeks and presses little kisses over the tiny face and bare tummy in his arms. The laughter turns to giggles and squirms to get away and suddenly Vader can’t wait until this tiny form is old enough to try and run from him so he can play merry games of chase and teach him how to work with mechanics and throw dirt into the air and watch it come crashing down just to see what shapes the air makes out of it. He can’t wait to hear this little voice speak and he can’t wait to give him his first training saber so that _he_ can train him. Not that bastard, Palpatine. _Him._

He’ll be damned if anyone tries to take this child away from him.

He wont admit it when he remembers, but Vader will figure out that the reason his son started laughing and stopped crying was because Anakin Skywalker had surfaced just enough o pull memories of his childhood and his Master. Because the little boy watched every loving caress and gentle hug of an emotionally guarded man who loved his daddy unconditionally so that he could escape the harsh reality of his son potentially hating him like he pretended he did his own pseudo parent.

He won’t admit it, but he floods the bond with the same warmth and happy memories of Obi-Wan comforting him and _loving_ him each time the baby gets upset or scared.

Vader also won’t admit to fighting off tears when he does this because that would admit that he threw it all away. That he was in the wrong. That _he_ pushed it all away.

And he will never, _ever_ admit that Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader might just be closer to a single person inside of his mind that two separate beings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I had colic as a baby and my mother said I cried for three moths straight. I thought it would be funny to put Vader in a similar situation. :)


	6. Struggles of a New Parent

"Da!" Anakin cried, throwing his arms in the air and letting his little body fall backwards with the biggest giggle he could muster. Crowing his delight as the pillows that surrounded him caught his head and prevented him from colliding with the cold, durasteel floor of the Death Star. He screamed his greeting again, repeating his fall and subsequent explosion of laughter.

Vader, on the other hand, froze midway through his door. Absolutely still as he watched his baby boy screaming at him, speaking at him. It's garbled and mostly just baby speak, but that word was not. It was a real word and Darth Vader feels like his whole body has seized. Like his whole fucking system has shut down and now his brain is short circuiting and there is nothing left to run through it but the flood of  _'fuck, fuck, fuck!'_  and  _'did he just say that?'_. And, ok, maybe there is this swell of pride and joy and love that has been welling up, unbidden, through his whole body for weeks and months and he might have just lost all his control over it.

But he isn't crying. Absolutely not!.

Well, maybe a little.

When the brain freeze passes and he can move again, it's on autopilot because he is just too shocked to really notice that his son is calling him dad. That he's been given irreparable proof that his baby is growing up and growing older. Even if it's slow and he's just managed to get the boy to sleep all through the night and not throw a temper tantrum every time he has to leave- he's growing up.

It's terrifying but he's going to shove those feelings down so fucking far that they can keep Skywalker company because he just wants to hold the baby and keep it close for as long as he can.

"Yes, my son," he murmurs into the giggling babies head of hair. "I'm your daddy."

He sat down on the bed and laid them dow, the boy resting on his chest as he propped his head up on his pillows so he could watch the laughing eyes and wide mouth so full of light and love. he wrapped his hands over it's back and pressed his tiny body close to his heartbeat and breathed in the smell that is only his son and almost like his former master. Smiled down and the burbling and garbled conversation the child held with him. Laughed heartily at his squeals of excited laughter and ecstatic waving of his arms. Rolled over and held the sleeping child in the crook of his shoulder and chest that once held his sleeping master's head when he had been injured during the war and made the baby a vow.

"I will always keep you safe."

Karma is a bitch, but Darth Vader thinks she isn't so bad.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me," Vader grumbled, exasperated at the sight before him. There, on the floor and covered in every kind of food imaginable, was his son. Who stared up at him with big, sea foam eyes before breaking into the widest, most happy smile. Ever.

Vader wanted to slap himself.

He doesn't but it's damned close as he goes about cleaning up his son. All the while cursing Karma out for doing this to him.

For Force's sake, did she have to make the baby as tenacious as his former master? And did she have to make just as fucking cute while he did it?

* * *

The first time Anakin saw grass he screamed. Not so much in a terrified way, but just a shocked and not so sure of himself way. He was still small and he probably shouldn't have been out in the fresh air after being raised in a temperature controlled environment all his seven month old life, but Darth Vader is on planet with a three day break from being himself and is going to enjoy this. He will not let his boy be deprived of the realities of planets and grow too comfortable inside ships and space stations. He wants his boy to love and be happy on planet and be one with the Living Force like his master never had been.

He shouldn't have worried. his tiny fingers picking at the tall stalks and tossing them up and onto his head. Laughing outrageously at the feeling of the blades resting on his head and sliding through his silky strands. Pressing more of them into his father's palm so he can toss them higher into the air and let the wind and the Force take them further from their castor. A small smile played over Vader's lips as he remember's his own experiences with grass. The soft feeling of those green fingers carding through his hair and cradling his body with the warmth they soaked up from he sun. Like sand but so much better.

Ani's cries of joy fill the air around them and the sun warms them through to the soul. Better than any heater or temperature regulator could. His hair shines like rose gold in the son and the soft caress of the breeze ruffle it in just the right way to make him remember the gentle waves of his master. Of Obi-Wan's long hair that grew out choppy and uneven from his stupid padawan cut. Vader wont let Ani's hair ever look like that. He likes the red hair too much to cut right now.

Maybe ever.

* * *

Darth Vader is forced to cut the boy's hair when he turns a year old. They had been down on Alderaan where an elderly woman had looked on Vader without fear and a matronly expression that warmed his chest far more than he thought possible since it was stranger. And then she ruined it by adjusting her thick as fuck glasses and telling him that he had a beautiful little girl. He'd been so embarrassed, he hadn't even been able to correct the woman or tell her off. He couldn't even kill her he was so mortified.

So now he had to cut his son's hair to avoid future mistakes. And so that the Emperor wouldn't say something similar just to make his apprentice seethe with embarrassment. He didn't think either one of them would survive that encounter.

So with great trepidation and a lot more reservation than was probably necessary, he made the first cut. Ani's head swiveled around and those blue eyes stared up at him accusingly. A frown marring his chubby cheeks and his lip sticking out in a pout that was way to fucking cute to be real. It made the Sith cringe. Partly because of the irritated look being away to adorable to be safe and partly because he's trying really,  _really_ kriffing hard not to cry.

Yes, Darth Vader, Sith Lord and Master of the Inquisitors, was trying not to cry over Force damned baby hair.

He felt so stupid. Even more so when his son glared at him because of it. He had to close his eyes and turn the boy's head away just so he didn't burst into tears or throw the scissors into the other side of the ship. Breathing and running his synthaskin fingers through the red hair that is fine a silk and hoping to all the gods and the Force for this to just be over with. To please, oh  _please_  get them through this without his son bursting into tears.

Or himself.

After a steading breath and a fortifying shake of his head, Darth Vader opened his eyes and pulled the head in front of his straight again. Readjusting the tool in his hand, he bit his lip and forced his hand to come up to the back of the baby's head. He only has to cut a few inches off. That's all. Just a couple inches and he doesn't have to worry about anyone calling his little boy a girl ever again. He just has tout a couple inches off. He already started- now he has to finish.

Ani's head gets turned around again before he can make the next cut and there is a twinkle there that really ought not to be.

Oh dear Force, the child is laughing at him.

Laughing.

Vader huffs out a laugh and rests his exhausted head against the warm dome of his boy's. Smiling into copper hair. He has to do it sooner or late because there is a hunk missing out of the back of his head but he thinks he can give himself a few minutes to try again. Because a baby is laughing at him over cutting his hair and he thinks he can hear his own master laughing at him through the fragmented shards of their bond he was never really able to shear off.

Eventually, he does get it all trimmed off. It looks the same as it always does: shaggy with just the right amount of fringe around his sweet blue eyes. But it's shorter and less of it in the back. In all, he doesn't think it looks too bad and he knows that he wont be made fun of for it now.

Well, unless his son decides to remember this when he gets old enough to tease his father.

A silly, little part of his mind really hopes that he does.

* * *

"Sir."

Vader looked over to the young lieutenant who had spoken only to see her shyly holding up the little redhead that was his son. The baby peered at him with the same toothy, cheeky smile he's becoming far too used to and clapped his hands excitedly at his father. He's glad he wore his helmet, other wise they would have seen him roll his eyes.

He'd already gotten a nice lecture (and lightning strike) for doing such a thing years ago. No repeat lessons required, thank you very much.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," He murmurs, letting the raspy voice that filters through the helmet's vocal processors fill the space. The blonde nods shakily at him and holds the baby out for the older man to take him. The baby, however, is a flirtatious little bastard- or so his father says- and tugs happily on her hair. Chewing on the nerf tail he had tugged out of her tight bun. Her grimace would have been funny, Vader thinks, if he was anyone else and she wasn't so terrified to smile. Instead, she just pulls her hair free and takes a step back.

Anakin waves wildly at her and singsongs his own language to his father about her. He's rewarded with a sweet, shy smile in return before the girl bows to the Sith and returns to her station on the bridge.

Vader adamantly refuses to acknowledge the amused, condescending look that Tarkin gives him.

* * *

Vader notices when his eyes change color the instant they decide to do so. He had hoped with all his might that they would stay true, abbey blue forever and the green would never come. He Had wished so ardently that he could have recited every prayer he made for nine whole months that the tiny clone would cease to inherit one thing of his original.

So when those beautiful blue eyes change to the every mysterious and chameleon green eyes of his former master, Vader cries.

And he doesn't feel ashamed for it in the least. Mostly, he just tries to convince himself that the reason he's doing so is because he didn't want those eyes to gain their true color. He tries to convince himself that when they did turnt hat color, it was the worst thing that could happen to him. He tries not allow himself to believe that he doesn't see his master in those eyes despite the shape and sharp gleams. He pretends he mourns for the days he could look at the baby and think that it was any other child.

But he's actually really happy to have proof that the boy is a Kenobi. He's ecstatic to have proof that the boy has more light than dark in him and he is beyond relieved to see that this boy is going to grow up to be nothing like the monster his current master would try to change him into.

He isn't really sure why the boy's eye color could make him think that, but he just knows that it's true. He feels the force whispering sweet nothings into his boy's ear and mind and filling him up with love and life. He sees it wrapping him up the same way he remembers Obi-Wan doing when he meditated. He feels it protect the child like the Negotiator used to use it like a shield that would keep the darkness and the corruption of politics out of his mind and never taint his views of the galaxy.

Somehow, for Vader, Those sea foam eyes mean his son is going to be ok.

* * *

The Inquisitors are all dead. He knows this; they were never worthy enough to be his apprentices. But Vader feels their ghosts circling round his head sometimes. Feels their malevolent spirits creeping through the halls of the  _Devastator_  and crawl their way through the halls as they try to corrupt and harm his son. His beautiful son who can't defend himself against such things. His little boy, whom he created and he takes care of. He feels them getting closer and closer and he suspects his master is the leader of their cruel intentions. Their twisted and dead circus. He can hear their whisperings in his dreams and see their harsh machinations in the actions of the crew who have this robotic stare when they look at the boy. He see's the way their hands flicker with unknowing intent and the times that their lidless gazes follow the child as he crawls his way around the bridge. He feels their darkness getting closer and he feels the way he starts to think of ways they could potentially kill the boy.

Feels them doing it with his own hands.

They are dead, he knows, but he still feels like they will be there to hurt his son after every corner. He still feels like he needs to guard the boy from the things that cannot be seen with eyes but can be felt through the sheer cold of he air. He can see the trails of black thoughts as they worm their way through the Death Star and he knows,  _he knows_  that he has to do something that will keep the boy safe. But he trusts no Force sensitive beyond his son and there are no others with experience that can guard against foreign thoughts. Officers do not get that training in case they are disloyal and their minds need to be rifled through.

Troopers even less so.

Well, Stormtroopers. Clone Troopers remember what it was like to fight against Sith and they remember how to keep their thoughts to themselves so they don't distract their Jedi generals. They remember their training despite what they have become now.

And Vader knows the perfect clones to watch over his son.

Even if Rex vanished and most of them were destroyed after Order 66, the few he managed to rescue and the fewer who didn't get his shelter but escaped the carnage of their chips blowing their brains out are better than any weak-minded Stormtrooper and power-hungry Imperial. They are well trained and they are good company. Most died long time ago and the handful that still live are grey haired and aging, but Vader knows he can trust them. He always has been able to. Is pretty sure he always will be able to.

He just has to find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we have several sweet and fluffy and emotional moments in the life of Vader and Ani. We're going kinda fast for their first year, but there is more story after Ani gets a certain age and we have to get around to Luke and Leia joining in on all the family bonding action, so to avoid boredom on my part as well as yours, we're gonna go through it a little fast. But we will still get cute stuff after this and after all the good stuff starts happening, so thank you all for reading! P.S. Cody will be showing up in the next chapter, promise!


	7. Clones and Emotions and, Ugh, Emotions

"Sir, is that-?" Vader cut the former commander off with a hard glare. Cody glared back. In that deadpanned sort of way that conveyed disapproval and irritation at the same time. The look reminded him of something Obi-Wan had given him for most of his childhood.

"Yes," he replied, already regretting his decision to bring the clone into his son's life. Or, more accurately, _his_ life. "The child is a clone." 

Cody's expression didn't change; Vader didn't have to wonder who he had learned it from. He did his best not to glare back or break eye contact. One eyebrow raised.

Vader flinched.

“A clone of Kenobi?” the commander clarified. Not so much a question as it was an accusation.

“Yes,” he snapped back, turning to watch his son instead of the other man. There were two other clones in the room but he really doesn’t feel like looking at them either. Cody is bad enough because he remembers so many missions and joint operations with the clone and his battalion and because the rage and resentment isn’t being contained at all. Actually, it’s being outright shot out at Vader in harsh bursts from his untrained mind that are all the more painful because of their erratic, genuine intensity.

“Yes,” he says again only softer. His voice is no less intense but he doesn’t want to fight with these men. It’s been hard to keep his mind in the present now that he has the mini version of his master running around and reminding him with _every fucking move_ of the older, missing Jedi. “And he will never find out.”

Cody just blinks at him but his presence calms and the aura of self and outward loathing has diminished and fallen beneath a mask of professional aloofness. The baby on the floor looks up and blinks owlishly at them. Suddenly giggling and waving a toy speeder at them. He returns to his own play before any can even smile at his antics. Vader sighs but still won’t meet the other men’s eyes.

“Please,” he whispers, just watching the boy on the floor. “I need your help to keep him safe.”

“Safe from what?” Vader frowns at the man from the corner of his eye. Cody offers a belated and half-assed ‘Sir’ for it. He just rolls his eyes in reply.

“Everything,” he explains. He tries to keep his panic to a minimum because he can feel the presence of his master wandering around his mind, but the dark, slimy feel of the man’s cold mind is enough to send shivers of unrest through his whole body. Bile circling up his throat and he has to clench his mouth to keep his stomach where it fucking belongs. His eyes are dry when he meets the clone’s gazes, but he knows that his face has paled and the only reason his hands don’t shake is because they aren’t real. Something shifts on the clone’s face, his expression softening just that little bit. The dry smirk he was expecting wasn’t there and the twinkling blue eyes that had taught them both that look of amused serenity are not reflected in the mirror gaze of those brown eyes. He’s really glad that only one of the clones was from Kenobi’s unit.

He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting after his confession about his boy but a back breaking hug from the older clone was not it.

He’s not complaining.

* * *

“Why did you do it?” Cody eventually asks. They are all sitting in the receiving room of his quarters on the _Death Star_ sharing a bottle of some Ryloth liqueur that is too sweet and fizzes like some kriffing alkaline concoction about to blow up. Vader just stares at it for a long time, contemplating what he’s going to tell the other man. Well, that’s what he tells himself when he thinks about it. Really, he’s just trying to keep from panicking at the idea of them saying no and doing something to his boy.

He also has no idea of how to explain himself without the other man trying to kill him in retaliation for the dead clones he’s trying valiantly not to remember. Or the general that Cody is still so loyal to.

“It started as an experiment,” he finally began, his words muffled by the fizzing from his glass before he takes a swallow. The white haired clone blinks at him, expression the same blank stare that had always unnerved him as a young general of the Republic. He used to think that it was that the clones were all blank canvases with no paint in their future.

He came to realize that paint would have been a blessing for all the blood they had spattered against their souls. The blank looks only masks to hide that pain and suffering that only clones were to know because the senators and the councilmen of the Jedi would not hear of putting civilians on the front lines. No, better to put soulless property up there that could be replaced easier than anyone else.

Anakin had hated it and Vader was no different with the reminder of those darker days in front of him. He tries not shift at the sudden surge of anger that it brings back and to keep his calm because, Force damn it, he _needs_ these men. He needs these men to help and be there for him and for his little boy. He needs them to look after Anakin and to give the baby a future that does not include being a Sith for his master to contaminate. He needs these men to save his son where he cannot.

“It changed, though.” He doesn’t look up to see how their expressions change and he doesn’t acknowledge the flinch he feels shake him at the thoughts pushing through their shields at him.

“I’m-“ he tried again, choking on his own throat and swallowing to try and put his stomach back where it belonged.

Or, was that his heart?

“I’m not proud of what I did. It’s no excuse for all the-“ He clears his throat and keeps his eyes on the floor. “You didn’t see what he did to me. You didn’t see the extent of my injuries. That’s how it all started. It was to make me whole again. Er, as whole as I could ever be,” he huffed, staring at the synthaskin on his mechanical hands. He swallows another large gulp of alcohol and a good does of bile with it.

“I was angry. So, so _angry._ He-“  Vader stops. Cuts himself off as he shoots from his chair and throws the glass of foam into the wall. Anakin is in his room, napping, so he doesn’t need to worry about scaring the poor baby. A droid scuffles out of it’s hiding spot to clean up the crystal shards and blue liquid as he seethes. Clenches his fists and begs the force for help to keep his temper where it should be. Begs it to help him win these men over. He begs it for their help. For them to accept and _want_ to help him. To want his son.

To want _him._

“Anakin was born too soon during a malfunction in the cloning chamber and I’ve taken care of him ever since.”

He doesn’t turn to face the clones and he doesn’t fear their reactions to this news. He does _not_. He just, he’s not interested in anything they have to say. Yes, that’s it. They can be a part of his and his son’s lives or they can fuck off and go back to whatever shit posting they had before he recalled them to the _Death Star_. They can continue on and live without ever knowing the beautiful thing that was his son and they can leave him in peace- he doesn’t want to hear their mockery of his feelings and his mistakes. He doesn’t want to listen to them talk about something that they will never understand.

He is Darth _kriffing_ Vader, Sith Lord and Emperor’s Fist. He doesn’t care about what these lowly clones think of him.

Even if Skywalker isn’t the only thing telling him how wrong that is.

“So you’re just trying to find someone else to take care of your mistakes?” Cody growled, a fist clenched tight enough to shatter his own glass in his hand.

Vader spun at that, a feral snarl across his lips and the Force circling tightly to the throats of the men around him. Cold, hard fury burning his eyes yellow and gold over blue. Flames nearly spitting from his mouth as he hissed at them:

“He is _my son_. I will do anything to keep him safe. I love him.”

Vader thinks that he should be a little more shocked that he’s said it out loud. He also thinks that he should have admitted it to his son for the first time instead of nearly killing three of his men with the confession. He supposes, thought, as Skywalker cheers and does the equivalent of the happy dance in his head, that no matter how he confessed the love he felt towards his darling baby boy, he should just be glad his master wasn't there to witness it.

Instead, though, the clones were. When he releases them and their ragged breathing is more steady than his own, they watch him with this weary and quiet look that he can’t figure out. So he just collapses onto his white couch and buries his head in his hands. Tangles his hair in his fake fingers and wishes that he could pull his memories and anger out of his head as he could his hair.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a heavy arm wrap itself around his shoulders and Cody’s scarred face watches him with something like paternal or brotherly affection.

He feels his face crumple and tears leek out of his eyes before he recognizes that he was on the verge of crying to begin with. The clone and his brothers just hold him as he weeps, cooing softly that they will protect the boy and that they will try and learn to understand his motives. It’s the most that he can hope for and more than he ever imagined possible for his situation.

* * *

Considering that Anakin was a clone of Kenobi, Vader really should have known that the little bastard was going to be a humongous flirt. Really, the boy already showed a great talent for wrapping the female officers around his fingers and charming the males into at least finding amusement in the things he did.

Therefore, it should not have been as surprising as it was when the boy took to Cody and the other clones like glue in an engine. All roaming fingers and exploring eyes as he attached himself to the older man. He was especially astounded when the boy seemed to just inherently know that he was a clone and not just another soldier. Vader wondered if there was some kind of memory transfer within the Force that allowed the boy to know that Cody was a good friend and could be trusted.

It made Vader happy to know that he had someone to help protect his son; it made him sick to think of sharing the baby with anyone else.

The only thing that made him feel better was the strangled look on Cody’s face when Ani sneezed on him.

That, and the way that the child waved his arms in search of his father’s embrace when he was done being held by the trooper. Curling up in his arms and falling asleep against his chest as soon as he was clutched too tightly against the bigger man.

If Cody noticed the near death grip on the baby clone or the way those eyes looked a little panicked, he said nothing.

If he silently vowed to himself to keep the boy and his father safe, well, who cares? Everybody knew it would happen anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay, but real life has bitten me in the ass and I haven't gotten it to easy up yet. But, I swore I was gonna at least give you guys some Cody feels and another chapter to boot, so here you go. Hope you like :)


	8. Meeting the Emperor, Looking for Mommy, Oh! And Birthdays!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it about discovering new music that you love and procrastination that makes your fingers wanna spill your brain's guts?  
> Anyway, this one is kinda like three chapters all put together, but that's just to make it longer. No other reason really.

Vader was certain that the first time his son was held or confronted his master, he would cry and scream and beg to be taken away from the dark, malevolent presence. For being so young and innocent, his connection to the Force was almost as natural and uncanny as his own. He had wondered if his master had lied about his midichlorian count when he was a child, but the tests had confirmed a slightly above average count. And, unless the Force was hiding the real count from them, Anakin’s count was exactly the same as his master’s had been. Vaguely normal with a side of Unified Force visions. Nothing Darth Vader wasn’t used to from the original.

However, that connection to the Force and his visions must have warned the baby that he had to stay calm and quiet when in the presence of the Sith Master. Or else he would suffer as much as his father would for not keeping the baby contained and well mannered.

So the toddler just stared with wide, sea foam eyes at the older and smelly man. A little hand reached out to poke at one of his long folds of skin but retracted quickly when the eyes they surrounded flashed from dingy, mad yellow to a ferocious and deadly gold. But Anakin didn’t cry or scream or squirm to get away. Instead, he surprised both men and grabbed a hold of the skin once more and pushed it back so that the cruel smile was a little less twisted. Giggling at the surprise of the Emperor.

Said man cackled with dark glee and resumed his seat on his Imperial Throne.

“Such bravery for one so small and young. I should have you punished for daring to touch my face without my permission.” Vader felt his insides freeze at those words and felt the stiffening of his clone troopers around him. Terrified that the Sith would make good on his threat and that he could do nothing about it.

Anakin wrinkled his nose at the old man and shook his head.

“No? And why not?”

“Da!” the boy cried and pointed at the younger man wrapped in black robes. His armor stood proudly over his shoulders and arms but the remainder was swathed in the dark and thick robes that kept the cold of space out of his bones and servos. Darth Vader felt his jaw clench but bowed deeply to his master. To his slaver.

“And what would your ‘Da’ do, my dear boy? Hm? Seems to me that he would allow me to punish such a naughty child. He is, after all, my apprentice and I his master.” The grizzled voice cackled warningly but the darkness that exuded from the dark man couldn't seem to penetrate the swell of bright love that the baby was wrapping himself in. If Vader wasn’t so terrified of the Sith Lord hurting the child out of spite, he would have been impressed.

Ok, he was fucking proud but admitting it, even to himself, right now was a bad idea.

Anakin cocked his little head to the side, copper hair flopping over his eye in the same cowlick that his master forever fought with and watched with interest. Neither said a word for several minutes. Several very tense minutes for the Sith father and his clone brothers. Watching and waiting for the moment the Emperor reacted and they had to force themselves to simply watch.

Finally, the baby bowed his head and rested it against the shriveled shoulder in penance, murmuring soft words of apology he could only half form on his lips. Like a breath of cold relief washing through the room and the tension draining out into the Force when the Emperor’s only response is to cackle with his vicious mirth and pet the soft red hair. Grinning like a mad fool as the baby huddles as far away as he can while still being in the man’s arms. His burning yellow eyes boring dark holes into his apprentice’s mind and soul.

Vader wishes it were his body; at least he would have proof of the scars he’s been given.

It takes all his self control to let the man hold the boy in his arms for as long as the twisted mind is happy to do so. Petting that fine red hair that belongs to _him_ and no one else. Brushing gnarled claws over the fresh cheeks of the baby who belongs to _him_. To him and the clones who love him just as much.

It’s hours later before he gets his son back and it’s with the force suggestion of sleep so deeply entrenched into the boy’s mind that he sleeps for two days.

Vader almost breaks his arm through the ship’s hull.

* * *

“Daddy?” Anakin asked, tilting his head up and staring at the tall expanse of black that was his father’s chest. Vader’s face didn’t change but his eyes warmed as he turned to watch the boy lift his arms up. Obliging, Darth Vader lifted the little boy into his arms, happier now than he could say that the child could speak whole words and with some semblance of coherency. Carefully putting the babe upon his hip, the Sith hummed an inquisitive murmur into the baby’s ruffled hair, making him giggle.

“Where Mommy?” came the mumbled question, just slightly mangled from his still learning lips.

He froze; the clones paused. Everyone in the room turned to look at the little boy who had innocently broken the fragile balance that had been Vader’s conscious and his guilt. Who had no idea that the question he had just asked had been one that no one had thought of before, let alone thought of an answer to give him should it be asked. It made it extremely difficult to think of what to say.

Or how to breathe.

“Um well,” he choked, trying to fight past the lump in his throat that was more than just panic and sheer bewilderment. And definitely a lot of shame.  Because Darth Vader doesn’t know anything about Obi- about _Kenobi’s_ actual family aside from his birth world and that they gave him up to become a Jedi when he was barely a year old. As Anakin Skywalker, he had never even thought to ask the man about his family. He realizes (with a substantial dose of guilt and something like vomit crawling up his throat) that it had never mattered because Anakin was more interested in his own problems, his own quest to be a Jedi and his own desire to see his mother again.

By the Force, he was a selfish bastard- even as a child.

Looking at his son though, he knows that he has to come up with an answer. He has to tell the boy that there is a reason why he doesn’t have a mother and _“You’re a copy of the man I vowed to destroy,”_ wasn’t going to cut it.

He shivers at the idea of the baby asking him why he had been copying a man that he hates. Tries to suppress the memories of the nine clones who never got the opportunity to be like their little brother or the fifty three who died well before his son’s birth.

More bile, more guilt, less breathing.

He finally manages to force a shaky breath through his parted, chapped lips and is only able to swallow that lump of vomit (not tears- no fucking way is he gonna even think about crying!) back into his stomach and force the taunting voice of what sounds like his Master and Skywalker fused together to make a cloying whisper of blame and dark hatred and _knowing_ into a space somewhere deep in his mind that he hopes never to hear it again.

“Well,” he choked again. The clones have a pensive though blank expression on their faces as they watch. No help from them, then. He almost grumbles at them.

“You’re mommy,” he tried to start again, really wishing that he didn’t have an audience for this. Wishing that he could send the clones away without raising suspicion, wishing that he could tell the boy about his actual mother, about any other woman that would make a suitable role model for the baby. He even wishes that he could bring himself to tell the boy that he belonged to his beloved Padmé. That he and she had survived all that had happened and that Ani was their child. Not just his son, but _theirs_.

The words don’t come out when he looks back at the baby.

“I don’t know,” he says instead. Almost palms his forehead for his stupidity.

No one is laughing at him, though, so he keeps on going. wondering how to tell the the boy- his son- about a man that can’t possibly be his mother, but was the sole donor for his genetics. The man who was the whole reason for this little baby being in his life and being right here to remind him every _waking second_ of times long gone and laughter never to return. For either.

“Mommies are usually women, Anakin,” Vader starts, feels a little stupid for where his train of thought has gone, but looking at this little boy just makes the words come tumbling out as their truth rings out in the Force around them.

“But you’re special, my son.” Vader sits carefully on the chair next to Cody. Screwball and FourFive pause in their game of sabbac to peer over at their commander, who shrugs to them the same as if Tuck and Shaky were with them and not on duty somewhere on the station, training the Storm Troopers to be better troopers. They don’t say anything, but just watch. Vader has only to look into the sea foam eyes of his baby boy to forget that they are there.

“You don’t have a mommy. You have me. Isn’t that all you need?” Even as he said it and watched the confused, indignant frown pull those pouty lips down, he knew it was never going to be enough. So he sighed and fell back into the plush back of the recliner. Eyes closed and praying that he would hurry up and wake the Kriff up!

“But Sandy n’ Coco ‘ave mommies,” Ani pouted, hands resting on his little hips where he sat on the Sith Lord’s knees.

Ah, yes. The two little children who were Anakin’s age on the ship. Both their parent’s being officers on the _Death Star_ so were allowed to keep their children aboard the massive, relatively safe space station. Vader hadn’t been all that excited when they had arrived, Shanda’hil being an obnoxious, spoiled little girl while Koku  a slow, boring little boy who usually just followed the girl like some sort of repair droid after a sandfly. But they are Ani’s age and the clones had insisted that he get to be around kid’s his own age.

Even if his father kriffing hated them.

“Well,” he tried again, shifting in his seat and grumbling to himself that he really should have thought about this a long time ago. Curse his ‘out of sight, out of mind’ mentality.

“You don’t have a mommy.”

If looks could kill, then the blank and disbelieving look on his son’s face would do it a hell of a lot faster than the outright glare Cody was giving him. Screwball and FourFive wisely kept their mouths shut and thoughts to themselves.

Then again, the look of dawning horror on his son’s face was even worse.

“No! I mean- well, you do. Just not- well not a- um, ugh.” Tears were slowly crawling down his silent son’s cheeks. Vader wanted the chair to swallow him whole so his torment would end.

This wasn’t fair! Why was it that he couldn’t just think of something to say? What the hell do you say? Why did his life have to be so Force Forsaken difficult?

Cold hard reality hit him in the stomach with that thought. Who the hell was he to say that? Sure his life sucked, but at the expense of his child? His son?

No. His life was not that bad. His son would know that he was loved and well cared for and he would make damned sure that there was nothing that he wanted for. To the best of his abilities, of course. And that meant telling his son all that he could about his mother. Who wasn’t a woman but a vanished Jedi master….

Ok, his life sucked.

“Your mommy is different from Sandy and Coco’s. She is actually a he- I mean, you have two fathers instead of a mother and father like your friends. Does that make sense?”

Anakin shook his head furiously, tears still crawling down his cheeks. Vader could feel his cheeks heating; Cody’s indignation ricocheted through their rooms and he’s sure that the only reason his palms aren't sweating is because they are synthetic.

Stars, his life fucking sucked.

“Well, most people have a mommy and a daddy but you are special. You’re really special, Anakin. You’re so special, that you have two fathers- two daddies. You have me and you have another daddy who you haven’t met yet.” Vader watched the question form in the boy’s eyes before it came out of his mouth, mangled and vaguely distorted from wobbling lips.

“Where?”

Didn’t make it any easy to answer.

“I don’t know, Ani,” Vader sighed, pulling his son to his chest and rising from the chair he had been sitting in. He suffered through the last fifteen minutes with an audience; he wasn’t going to have another for this.

The door to Vader’s room shut with a soft hiss, Anakin’s sniffling the only thing audible in the sudden rush of quiet. Awkwardly, the Sith managed to crawl his way up the bed without tripping on his cape and landing on the boy or letting him go. Carefully rearranging the pillows and covers until the twenty month old was tucked into the next to and facing his father’s larger, scarred face. His blond hair fanning out on the pillow mostly behind his head, but a few stray curls fell across his forehead. Being snatched up by the little fingers that were always curious about anything that was his father.

Vader felt a small smile spread across his cheeks. This was better, being just the two of them; these stories were for just the two of them.

“I met your father-“

“Mommy,” Anakin cut in suddenly, eyes stern and the exact same shade of steely blue that had always had Skywalker ready to raise his hackles and protest even though his instincts told him to just agree with it. When it was his master it was mostly out of principle after being a slave all his childhood. With his son, it was because the idea was utterly ridiculous.

“He’s not your mommy-“

“You my daddy. No more daddies. Just mommy.”

Darth Vader watched the steely blue eyes soften and turn back to the curls in his fingers. Tugging gently only to release and watch them bounce away before being picked back up. Their color returning to the happy green they always were when he did something that amused himself.

How did this baby manage to be exactly the same and nothing like his master?

“Your mommy,” he sighed in defeat. Anakin smiled brightly at him then, watching the blue eyes of his father as the Sith continued. “And I met when I was nine. He was older than me (a lot older than me) but I loved him anyway. Not in the beginning, but we grew on each other.

“He and I were nearly inseparable,” Darth Vader went on, explaining missions and happy memories. Showing the little boy through their bond all the time when his ‘mommy’ had wrapped his daddy up and soothed nightmares away with soft words and gentle, warm and loving caresses through his hair and over his cheeks. Just like how his daddy did for him. Telling him about days spent running away from their duties to explore the new worlds that they had been sent to. Sharing meals on the sun soaked grasses of Alderaan and learning to swim in the warm pools of Kintano Resort Moons or the few trips into the wilderness that resulted in a sprained ankle for him and a broken wrist for his master but laughter all the same.

Of their failed escape attempts and the laughter that Obi-Wan would almost kill him with as he swiftly and expertly cut politicians and representatives down and made them preen and turned them around and around until they were able to see eye to eye and eventually get around to making peace. How the Jedi taught him with callous rough hands on his own how to properly hold his first saber and the warmth of his pride as it flooded their bond, though nothing passed over his face. The foods they had eaten that made them silly or bloated with hives and sick to their stomachs for days. How they managed to get out of as much trouble as they got into and all the attempts on Skywalker’s part to make the man just say he loved him.

Vader’s stories turned darker as their years got closer and closer to their tragic parting, but Anakin lapped them all up regardless. Fingers tightening almost painfully over his hair and tugging. His face was nearly sideways into the pillow by the time he managed to extract the strands from the tiny fingers.

He continued for a while longer, tapering off into times during the war when it was just the two of them sitting and consoling one another or tending to injuries or just enjoying being around someone who understood. When they would just sit in silence or cuddle close because there was only one available cot and they were both too tired to argue over who took the floor. Leaving out the daring rescues for another time and refraining from telling his son about all the reckless maneuvers or stupid stunts that had gotten either one of them hurt or nearly killed (though they almost always worked out, thank you very much, Obi-Wan!) for when his son was older and wiser and less likely to try and act out their stupider moments. Instead, he told the baby about when Obi-Wan would press his lips to his hair and whisper _brother_ into his mind and soul and warm his heart. When Obi-Wan would rest his head on his shoulder and no one else’s because he was the only person that the master trusted. He told Anakin all about how Obi-Wan was always there with a quick remark or a sarcastic and cutting barb.

He didn’t tell the boy about the older man who was drowning in the harsh reality of war as he tried to keep his former padawan afloat without care for himself. He didn’t tell the boy about the times when they argued and snarled at one another. He didn’t tell the baby about how his ‘mommy’ never defended him to the Council or the times when Obi-Wan broke so completely after a battle that he couldn’t even move. The times when Anakin had to lift him and walk them through the motions of recovery because there just wasn’t the strength in those burdened shoulders to save himself.

He didn’t tell the baby that his mommy was the most noble, self sacrificing man that could ever have existed. Nor did he tell him that Vader had thrown it all away.

“I did something stupid, though,” he finally told the boy. “I met a woman and I loved her with all my heart. I still do and I wish I could have saved her. But she died and when she did, your mommy left me too. We said and did awful things to one another and I haven’t seen him since,” he said to sleepy eyes and red rimmed lids. Chubby cheeks no longer splotchy but still swollen while his little lips were parted as he slowly fell into a nap.

“Love you still?” was the slow, slurred question. Blue green eyes didn’t open but Vader knew the child was still awake. A lump grew. So big and painful, he knew there was no hope in it every going away forcefully. His tongue just wasn’t strong enough to pull it down and shove it deep inside him. Where he could, hopefully, choke Skywalker to death with it.

“I don’t know, Love.” His voice is strained; he doesn’t bother pretending it doesn’t hurt to breath. He brushes familiar red hair out of those sleepy eyes and tries not to look for the matching beard. He doesn’t look for the wrinkles around the boy’s eyes and he doesn’t search for the wise, and safe corona within his Force Signature that had nearly been instinct to reach for once.

He doesn’t.

(He almost believes his lies.)

“He does. Mommies always love daddies.”

Vader smiled at his son, though he knew the boy couldn’t see it. Oh to be young and naïve again.

Careful not to dislodge his son form his nest, Vader rolled over. For the first time in nearly seventeen years, Anakin Skywalker cried, his tears leaking down Vader’s temples and to his hair as he wished he could go back and stop his stupid, younger self. The pillow soaked through though no sound escaped his lips. Vader can’t even pretend that he doesn’t regret what he did. He doesn’t tell himself that all that he learned from Sidious was worth what he had lost.

He doesn’t lie to himself and say that Obi-Wan deserved what happened as much as Anakin Skywalker deserved to take his revenge for what the galaxy made him.

Not for the first time in the past year and a half, Vader cursed Karma the same as he thanked it for his lovely little baby boy.

* * *

“Anakin will be turning two this week,” Cody began noncommittally, eyes never leaving his datapad. Vader wasn’t that stupid.

“So?”

Cody glared back at him, deadpanned and slow like he couldn’t believe that the man was being that dense. Slowly setting down the pad and threading his fingers over the top of it. Expression never changing until the Sith began to squirm.

He felt ridiculous; technically, Vader was the older one.

“His friends had birthdays-“

“He’s two. What are any of them going to remember about it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He gets another glare as answer. He glares back.

Over the last few months, ever since he had brought the clones back into his life, Darth Vader had been feeling like he was constantly on trial for his actions. No matter what they were or what he did to explain them, the clones always seem to come up with a reason why not to do it that way or why he should do it a different way. And if he ignored them, they had a blank, disapproving expression line the creases of their aging faces.

It was the worst with Cody because the man had started growing beard that looked disturbingly like Kenobi’s. That, and the way he arched his eyebrow, was eerily similar to the absent Jedi and had the Sith on a constant edge. One he knew the clone was aware of and actually enjoyed putting him on. Especially when he started petting it.

Not only that, but Vader was starting to feel wholly inadequate around them, not that he really knew why because the clones could never have children of their own and they were hardly paragons of childcare themselves. Their ‘childhoods’ being more of a farce than any Jedi’s had been. Didn’t stop them from making him feel stupid or too strict. (And wasn’t _that_ a thought?)

Vader shifted, eyes flicking away in doubt; Cody’s expression softened.

“Do you want him to feel left out? It probably won’t matter this time, but when he gets older?” Cody’s voice was soft and he could almost pretend that the past seventeen years hadn’t happened. That, instead, he was receiving another lecture in lieu of his master’s absence. His lips twitched with fondness.

“He’s a baby, what do you even do?” he cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation. Letting his head fall back over the top of his chair. He wasn’t acting much like his normal self recently, but he blamed that on the clones. They just brought back too many memories.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Screwball piped up suddenly. His mando’an tattoo shining dully in the artificial light aboard the station. Again, Vader wondered what he had done to earn his name and the tattooed word of _lunatic_ across his forehead.

“So?”

Cody rolled his eyes but didn’t change his expression much more than to watch the other man.

“So,” Screwball began, as if the man was a moron. Vader felt like one. “Wouldn’t it be nice to celebrate that he’s turned two?”

Vader blinked at the two men. It’s not as though he’s being deliberately obtuse, he’s just never seen the point to birthdays, naming days- whatever. Being a slave for the first nine years of his life, there was no opportunity to celebrate the anniversary of his birthday. It also wasn’t much of a common thing to do on Tatooine in general, being thought frivolous and only for the rich or the stupid. When becoming a Jedi, he’d never been presented with the chance to celebrate his birthday- hell, he didn’t even know what day it was! It just wasn’t done.

The only time that Obi- that _Kenobi_ had even made a big deal about birthdays was when he had asked him what day he would like to celebrate becoming thirteen, as there was a special significance because it was the last day to become a padawan. Granted, he had been one for nearly four years at that point, but it wasn’t like that for all the initiates who had been sent to the Jedi Temple as children. Something that had irked him to no end when he had been a child and had learned that one of his few friends had been sent away because no master had agreed to take them on as an apprentice. He had screamed at his own master for almost a day after.

All the while, the man had just watched with this blank, sad kind of look and quietly explained to his padawan that it was the way of the Jedi. Whether they agreed with it or not, that was just how things were done. His anger and almost bitter snarl of it needing to be different hadn’t been met with any sort of reply.

When he got older, he realized that no reply was the easiest way for the Jedi to not agree with his padawan out loud. In case Yoda popped his head through the wall and shamed them both for thinking.

“He’s two,” was his only reply. He was starting to feel like a broken datachip, stuck on repeat.

The two clones sighed and shook their heads, obviously wondering why they were even trying. Something feral and angry boiled in his gut; the glasses in the kitchenette rattled in their cupboards. Dishes clattered as they moved and the paintings that Anakin had painted with his fingers fluttered where they were stuck to the walls of the main room. he didn’t have to explain to these idiots why it wasn’t important to him to know how old you were. He didn’t have tot tell them why he didn’t care. He just didn’t.

He was a Sith Lord and user of the Dark Side of the Force. There was no kriffing reason why he needed to tell these two why he didn’t understand.

“Birthdays are only important when you turn thirteen as a Jedi,” he bit out, arms crossed over his chest and blue eyes glaring down at the counter top. His lip curled into a sneer. “And there is no reason to celebrate another year as a slave.”

The dark and twisted thing in his gut churned, like he had just revealed too much. Like he was giving them more ammunition to use against his parenting skills.

“I don’t even know my own birth date. I see no reason to force my son into a party he won’t remember.” With that he turned and walked away, robes fluttering around his ankles and billowing off his shoulders. He didn’t care what they thought. They could damn him all they wanted.

“But it’s another year that you get to have them. You get to celebrate and remember the year you got to spend with him,” Cody tells his back. The Sith pauses, listening to the sorrow and the breaking voices of the clones as they try one last time.

“It’s not to celebrate a day as innocuous as any other- it’s to be thankful for the year you just had. To pray for another.”

Darth Vader says nothing, watches the floor beneath is still fluttering robes. Feels the brush of old memories with his clone troopers across the fragmented part of his mind that still tries to speak with Skywalker’s voice. Their hoarse voices a little louder. There are no tears in the men’s voices. there are no tears in their eyes, he doesn’t have to look to know. He feels their sadness- their loss- echo all around him. Through him.

“Alright,” he sighs. Dropping his head and surrendering to these men. Because he has finally figured out that this isn’t about giving his son toys and playing stupid games with the other children on board. This is about the clones getting to hold onto their little brother for another year. This is about all the brothers they never got to keep. The Jedi and soldiers that were killed in the war and Order 66.

“Ok,” he says again, turning to see their brightening faces.

And that is how he found himself surrounded by seven children all under the age of eight, running around and playing dumb games while their parents looked on and worried over what their Lord would do if anything happened to is son at his party. Wearing a blue cone on top of his head because his son thought it matched his eyes and tossing the boy up in the air to relieve his boredom and sheer embarrassment about having to wear white and green robes and letting a child paint his hair with cake.

Watching the clones chase all the children around and forget that they are not the little brothers who were put to sleep like the nine clones he, himself, killed or the little children who grew too fast though were not ready for combat with ease and happiness makes the effort of corralling the wild kids (plus all his droids who liked the excitement). Watching them give presents to the little buddy and the other kids is worth the cake in his hair and the images bound to show up on the holonet.

The realization that he has found a family in these men is worth every second he spends wondering why birthdays were supposed to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this one. It took me forever to figure out how to get through from one plot point to another in regards to Ani asking about his mommy. I hope that their reactions were convincing.
> 
> This thing is turning more and more into an epic every time I turn the computer on to work on it :(


	9. Rage Should Have a Warning Label

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it isn't much but it is something. Sorry for taking so long. I swear that I am working on it, just not quite in order ^_^'  
> Also a warning for non-graphic murder.

Familiar rage boiled in his gut and expanded out of his body before he even thought to contain it. Not that he thinks to do so- he never does. The Force of his rage grabbing hold of the man and snapping the neck in it’s grasp without effort. It feels good; it feels powerful. An old friend that has never, ever left him. Not once has he gone without the hard, boiling emotion that has always given him power. Given him a strength none could ever take from him.

It’s the same darkness that has filled his veins his whole life, whether he was willing to admit it or not. It defines him as Darth Vader; it gives the Sith his power. It is what has always made him a force to be reckoned with. That little voice in his mind that speaks with a voice that might be Skywalker (though it sounds like someone else’s now) has never been able to convince him otherwise.

Rage and power go hand in hand and they are a drug he will not give up.

The dead weight of the officer is a hollow thud that rings loud in the silence that follows the snap. The man’s collapsed figure revealing the sight behind him. Little blue eyes find his and he blinks. Bile swells and the only reason he doesn’t vomit all over the floor at the expression on his son’s face is the fear he feels when he realizes what he has just done.

That he had just killed a man in cold blood. In front of his son.

And now the boy is running away and he can’t muster up the energy to do more than watch. Can’t fight the cold and frozen feeling in his limbs. His mechanical appendages not strong enough to break him out of his shock. He just killed a man in front of a little boy- in front of _his_ two year old son and all he can think to do is stand and stare with his mouth hanging open.

He barely notices the feeling of the ground shaking beneath his feet and his whole life begin to crumble around him. The perfect picture reality he had been deluding himself with popping right before his eyes; snapping out into oblivion with the man who lied at his feet.

(Some part of him realizes that this moment was inevitable. He was a Sith Lord- a fucking _Sith Lord_ \- and he should have known he could never hide who and what he really was from his son.)

* * *

Anakin won’t look at him. He won’t even stay in the same room as him. It’s a painful reminder of what he has done. Something he’s done so many times he can’t count them all, but it makes him burn with shame and guilt because this time he did it in front of his own son.

The boy run s out of the room, hides behind Cody (he doesn’t even want to acknowledge the scathing, almost glares the older clone gives him every time he walks into a room now), or furiously pretends to be busy with whatever project he’s been doing when his father walked into the room.

It’s a spear running through his poor, weak heart. It’s a stab of guilt and shame that has the Sith bowing his head and walking away. Has him sitting in his bed at night and wondering if it would just be easier- if it would be smarter to send him and the clones away. The could do it. He could distract Sidious long enough for the five of them to disappear. Vanish into the cosmos and never be seen again. Find the rebellion and put him out of his misery? It would be easy.

It would be for the best. It would be better to send the baby and the clones away and get them as far from him, a _monster_ , as they could get. It would be better to send them out there and away from Sidious and away from the Empire. Rescue Anakin from become a Sith- becoming just like him. It would be for the best.

And yet…

And yet, there is a selfish part of him that still yearns for the feeling of belonging. He desires to still be of need, to be wanted and to be happy. He _burns_ for that feeling. To be happy. The part of him that is still Skywalker and is goaded on by the Sith’s desire to _posses_ and the Jedi’s desire to _protect_. The parts of his mind that war and fight and just all out want the same damn thing.

Family.

The fact that Anakin is a clone of Obi-Wan never really comes into it, nor does the desire to see that at least one portion of his best friend is happy and healthy and whole.

All he wants is for his son to still love him.

* * *

"Why did you kill that man, Daddy?” the little face of his son whispered to him late one night. It’s been four days since the incident and, in all that time, not once has the boy even looked at him. Let alone spoken to him. It made something ache, deep inside, where he thinks Skywalker has taken residence. Where the shadow of his former self has ceased to weep. Too exhausted to fight anymore. Too burnt out and with no light of his son to keep the flames lit.

"I was angry.” It was a poor explanation, he knows. But it’s all he has. There will be no lies exchanged between him and his son. That includes this.

"You told me not to let my anger make me do bad things,” is the indignant reply, tears and wobbly lips included. The bright eyes blue with tears. With something less like fear for his life and more like fear for his father. Their bond sings with pain and worry. With a sad kind of resignation that there might not be anything that the little boy can do to save his daddy from what he did. Just like there was no way he could save the man whom Darth Vader had killed.

"I'm not a good person, Ani. I have no excuse for what I did and I should never have done it- especially in front of you. I don't want you to be like me, Ani. I want you to be-" he choked, blinking away as many tears as he could. They ignored him. He continued to lay on his side, glad for the darkness of space that kept the tears mostly hidden, even if his son was aware they were there.

"I want you to be like your mommy, Anakin. And he was terrible at everything when he got angry. Like a good person.”

There, he said it. He said what he has been wanting to say since the boy could speak. Since his two and a half year old showed a talent for words and understanding complex concepts. A knack for understanding people. 

Just like Obi-Wan.

"I wanna be better than you, Daddy. But I still love you.”

Vader choked; he sobbed. Anakin crawled into his bed and curled his little body around his father’s head and let him cry. Allowed his father to bawl his eyes out and pour his heartache and sadness and all his hatred and self loathing into the thin sleep shirt that the boy wore. Held him tight through the worst of it and long after. Gave him shelter and love because no one else could or would. Because he loved his daddy and, even after what he did, nothing could change that for him. It would never matter just what the man had done, he would always love him.

“I love you, Daddy,” he whispers into dirty, thinning hair. Gray starting to tickle his chin and stubble rubbing a rash into his arms. His fingers running unsteady through the curls.

“I love you too, Anakin,” the broken man whispers. To both the boy and the man. _To Obi-Wan._


End file.
